The Helen Bianchin Collection (Mills & Boon E-Book Collections) (96 page)

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Authors: Helen Bianchin

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Erotica, #Collections & Anthologies, #Contemporary Women, #General

BOOK: The Helen Bianchin Collection (Mills & Boon E-Book Collections)
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It was crazy to feel intensely conscious of every single breath, every beat of her pulse. Silent anger lent her eyes a fiery sparkle, and it took considerable effort to mask it. An effort made all the more difficult as she glimpsed his amusement before he turned his attention to Sir Alexander.
‘Georgina is unwell, I understand?'
‘She asks me to convey her apologies,' Sir Alexander offered. ‘She is most disappointed not to be able to attend this evening.'
Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed inclined his head. ‘It is to be hoped she recovers soon: He moved forward to speak to a woman who showed no reticence in greeting him with obvious affection.
‘Would you care for another drink?'
Kristi felt as if she'd been running a marathon, and she forced herself to breathe evenly as everything in the room slid into focus. The unobtrusive presence of the waiter was a welcome distraction, and she placed her empty glass on the tray. ‘Mineral water, no ice.' She didn't need the complication of a mind dulled by the effects of alcohol.
‘Would you like me to get you something to eat, my dear?' Sir Alexander queried. ‘Several of the guests seem to be converging on the buffet.'
Kristi summoned a warm smile as she linked her hand through his arm. ‘Shall we join them? I'm feeling quite hungry.' It was a downright lie, but Sir Alexander wasn't to know that.
There was so much to choose from, she decided minutes later: hot and cold dishes, salads, hot vegetables, delicate slices of smoked salmon, seafood, chicken, turkey, roast lamb, slender cuts of beef. The selection of desserts would have put any of the finest London restaurants to shame, and the delicate ice sculptures were a visual confirmation of the chef's artistic skill.
Kristi took two slices of smoked salmon, added a small serving of three different salads, a scoop of caviare, then drifted to one side of the room.
How many guests were present tonight? she pondered idly. Fifty, possibly more? It was impossible to attempt a counting of heads, so she didn't even try.
Sir Alexander appeared to have been trapped by a society matron who seemed intent on discussing something of great importance, given the intensity of her expression.
‘All alone,
chérie
? Such a crime.'
The accent was unmistakably French, and she moved slightly to allow her view to encompass the tall frame of a man whose smiling features bore a tinge of practised mockery.
‘You will permit me to share a few minutes with you as we eat?'
She effected a faint shrug. ‘Why not? We're fellow guests.'
‘You are someone I would like to get to know—very well.' The pause was calculated, the delicate emphasis unmistakable.
Kristi's French was flawless, thanks to a degree in Italian and French, her knowledge and accent honed by a year spent in each country. ‘I am selective when it comes to choosing a friend—or a lover,
monsieur.'
Her smile was singularly sweet. ‘It is, perhaps, unfortunate that I do not intend to remain in London long enough to devote time to acquiring one or the other.'
‘I travel extensively. We could easily meet.'
His persistence amused her. ‘I think not.'
‘You do not know who I am?'
‘That is impossible, as we have yet to be introduced,' she managed lightly. Perhaps she presented a challenge.
‘Enchanté, chérie.'
His eyes gleamed darkly as he reached for her hand and raised it to his lips. ‘Jean-Claude Longchamp d'Elseve.' He paused, head tilted slightly as he waited for an expected reaction. When she failed to comply, his mouth assumed a quizzical slant. ‘I cannot believe you lack the knowledge or the intelligence to be aware of the importance my family hold in France.'
‘Really?'
He was an amusing diversion, and he was sufficiently astute to appreciate it. ‘I am quite serious.'
‘So am I, Jean-Claude,' she declared solemnly.
‘You make no attempt to acquaint me with your name. Does this mean I am to be rejected?' The musing gleam in his eyes belied the wounded tone.
‘Do you not handle rejection well?'
His mouth parted in subdued laughter. ‘I am so rarely in such a position, it is something of a novelty.'
‘I'm relieved. I would hate to provide you with an emotional scar.'
He still held her hand, and his thumb traced a light pattern over the veins of her wrist. ‘Perhaps we could begin again. Will you have dinner with me?'
‘The answer is still the same.'
‘It will be relatively easy for me to discover where you are staying.'
‘Please don't,' Kristi advised seriously.
‘Why not?' His shrug was eloquent. ‘Am I such objectionable company?'
She pulled her hand free. ‘Not at all.' She cast him a slight smile. ‘I simply have a tight business schedule and a full social calendar.'
The edge of his mouth curved in pensive humour. ‘You mean to leave me to another woman's mercy?'
In different circumstances he might have proved to be an amusing companion. ‘I'm sure you can cope.'
His eyes gleamed with hidden warmth. ‘Perhaps. Although I may choose not to.'
‘Your prerogative,' she accorded lightly. ‘If you'll excuse me? I should rejoin Sir Alexander.'
Jean-Claude inclined his head and offered a teasing smile.
‘Au revoir, chérie.'
Her food had remained almost untouched, and she handed the plate to a passing waitress, her appetite gone.
Sir Alexander wasn't difficult to find, although he appeared deep in conversation with a distinguished-looking guest and she was loath to interrupt them.
‘Champagne?'
Kristi cast the waitress and the tray she carried a fleeting glance. Perhaps she
should
have a glass to diffuse her nervous tension. Even as the thought occurred, she dismissed it. Coffee, strong black and sweet was what she needed, and she voiced the request, then made her way to the end of the buffet table where a uniformed maid was offering a variety of hot beverages.
Declining milk, she moved to one side and sipped the potent brew. The blend was probably excellent, but she hardly noticed as she steeled herself to instigate a planned action.
Seconds later her cup lay on the carpet, and the scalding liquid seared her midriff. The pain was intense—far more so than she'd anticipated.
‘Oh, my dear, how unfortunate. Are you all right?' The voiced concern brought attention, and within minutes she was being led from the room by the hostess who had greeted them on arrival.
‘We keep the first-aid equipment in a bathroom next to the kitchen.' The hostess's voice was calm as she drew Kristi down a wide hallway and into a room that was clinically functional. ‘If you'll remove your dress I'll apply a cold compress to cool the skin.'
Kristi complied, adding a sodden half-slip to the heap of ruined silk, then stood silently as the hostess efficiently dealt with the burn, applied salve, then covered the area with a sterile dressing.
‘I'll organise a robe and have someone take care of your dress.'
Minutes later Kristi willed the hostess a speedy return, for despite central heating the room was cool, and a lacy bra and matching wispy bikini briefs were hardly adequate covering.
A frown creased her forehead, and she unconsciously gnawed at her lower lip, uneasy now that she had implemented her plan. There was a very slim chance that Sheikh bin Al-Sayed would check on her himself. Yet she was a guest in his home, and courtesy alone should ensure that he enquired as to her welfare—surely?
Her scalded flesh stung abominably, despite the hostess's ministrations. A wide, raised welt of red skin encompassed much of her midriff and tapered off in the region of her stomach. Even she had been surprised that one cup of hot liquid was capable of covering such an area.
A sound alerted Kristi's attention an instant before the door swung inwards. Her eyes widened measurably as Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed stood momentarily in its aperture.
He held a white towelling robe, his features schooled into a fathomless mask, and she shivered, unable to control the slither of apprehension as he moved into the room and closed the door.
Its soft clunking sound was somehow significant, and her hands moved instinctively to cover her breasts.
‘I suggest you put this on. It would be unfortunate to compound your accident with a chill.'
The room suddenly seemed much smaller, his height and breadth narrowing its confines to a degree where she felt stifled and painfully aware of the scarcity of her attire.
Reaching forward, she took the robe and quickly pushed her arms into the sleeves, then firmly belted the ties, only to wince and ease the knot. ‘Thank you.'
‘Rochelle assures me the burn, while undoubtedly painful, is not serious enough to warrant professional medical attention. Your gown is silk and may not fare well when cleaned. Replace it and send me the bill.'
‘That won't be necessary,' Kristi said stiffly.
‘I insist.' His gaze was startlingly direct, and difficult for her to hold.
‘It was a simple accident, and the responsibility is entirely mine,' she declared, hating her body's reaction to his presence. It had been bad enough in a room full of people. Alone with him, it was much worse.
His eyes narrowed. ‘You decline the replacement of an expensive dress?'
‘I don't seek an argument with you.'
With easy economy of movement he slid one hand into a trouser pocket—an action which parted the superbly tailored dinner jacket and displayed an expanse of snowy white cotton shirt, beneath which it was all too easy to imagine a taut midriff and steel-muscled chest liberally sprinkled with dark, springy hair.
‘What precisely is it that you do seek, Miss Dalton?' The words were a quizzical drawl laced with cynicism.
There was an implication, thinly veiled, that succeeded in tightening the muscles supporting her spine. It also lifted her chin and brought a brightness to her eyes.
His smile was totally lacking in humour. ‘All evening I have been intrigued by the method you would choose to attract my attention.' His mouth assumed a mocking slant. ‘No scenario I envisaged included a self-infliction of injury.'
K
RISTI felt the color drain from her face. ‘How dare you suggest—?'
‘Save your breath, Miss Dalton. An investigation fell into place immediately after your second phone call to my office,' Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed informed her with deadly softness. His gaze never left her features as he listed the schools she'd attended, her educational achievements, her parents' names and the cause of their accidental death, her address, occupation, and a concise compilation of her inherited assets. ‘Your visit to London was precipitated by a desire to accelerate the release of your brother, Shane, who is currently being held hostage in a remote mountain area,' he concluded in the same silky tones.
Anger surged through her veins, firing a helpless fury. ‘You
knew
why I was trying to contact you, yet you denied me the courtesy of accepting one of my calls?'
‘There seemed little point. I cannot help you, Miss Dalton.'
The words held a finality that Kristi refused to accept. ‘Shane was unfortunate to be in the wrong place at the wrong time—'
‘Your brother is a professional news photographer who ignored advice and flouted legal sanction in order to enter a forbidden area,' Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed declared hardly. ‘He was kidnapped by an opposing faction and taken beyond reach of local authorities, who would surely have instigated his arrest and incarcerated him in prison.'
‘You consider his fate is better with a band of political dissidents?'
His mouth curved into a mere facsimile of a smile. ‘That is debatable, Miss Dalton.'
Concern widened her eyes and robbed her features of their colour. The image of her brother being held captive kept her awake nights; then, when she did manage to sleep, her mind was invaded by nightmares. ‘I implore you—'
‘You beg very prettily,' Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed taunted mercilessly, and in that moment she truly hated him. ‘However, I suggest you direct all your enquiries through the appropriate channels. Such negotiations take time and require the utmost delicacy. And patience,' he added with slight emphasis. ‘On the part of the hostage's family.'
‘You could help get him out,' she declared in impassioned entreaty.
His gaze speared through her body and lanced her very soul, freezing her into speechlessness. There was scarcely a sound in the room, only the whisper of her breathing and she couldn't have looked away from him if she'd tried.
‘We are close to the twenty-first century, Miss Dalton,' he drawled. ‘You did not imagine I would don a
thobe
and
gutra,
mount an Arab steed and ride into the desert on a rescue mission with men following on horseback, taking water and food from conveniently placed oases along the way?'
Kristi ignored his sardonic cynicism, although it cost her considerable effort not to launch a verbal attack. ‘I have a sizeable trust fund which is easily accessed,' she assured him with determined resolve, grateful in this instance for inherited wealth. ‘Sufficient to cover the cost of hiring Jeeps, men, a helicopter if necessary.'
‘No.'
The single negation sparked a feeling of desperation. She held one ace up her sleeve, but this wasn't the moment to play it. ‘You refuse to help me?'
‘Go home, Miss Dalton.' His expression was harsh, and his voice sounded as cold as if it had come direct from the North Pole. ‘Go back to Australia and let the governments sort out the unfortunate incident.'
She wanted to hit him, to lash out physically and berate him for acting like an unfeeling monster.
He knew, and for one fraction of a second his eyes flared, almost as if in anticipation of her action—and the certain knowledge of how he would deal with it. Then the moment was gone, and it had been so swift, so fleeting that she wondered if it hadn't been a figment of her imagination.
‘You will have to excuse me. I have a party to host,' he imparted with smooth detachment. ‘Rochelle will bring you something suitable to wear. Should you wish to return to your hotel, it will be arranged for a driver to transport you there. Otherwise, I can only suggest that you attempt to enjoy the rest of the evening.'
‘Please.' Her voice broke with emotional intensity.
His eyes flayed every layer of protective clothing, burning skin, tissue, seeming to spear through to her very soul. With deliberate slowness he appraised her slender figure, resting over-long on the curve of her breasts, the apex between her thighs, before sweeping up to settle on the soft fullness of her mouth. ‘There is nothing you can offer me as a suitable enticement.'
Anger brightened her eyes, and pride kept her head high. ‘You insult my intelligence, Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed. I was appealing for your compassion. Sex was never a consideration.'
‘You are a woman, Miss Dalton. Sex is always a consideration.'
A soft tinge of pink coloured her cheeks as she strove to keep a rein on her temper. She drew a deep, ragged breath, then released it slowly. ‘Not even for my brother would I use my body as a bartering tool.'
His eyes narrowed with cynical amusement. ‘No?'
She was sorely tempted to yell at him, but that would only have fuelled his amusement. ‘No.' The word was quietly voiced and carried far more impact than if she'd resorted to angry vehemence.
He turned towards the door, and the blood seemed to roar in her ears, then she felt it slowly drain, leaving her disoriented and dangerously lightheaded for an instant before she managed to gather some measure of control.
‘What would it take for you to make a personal appeal to Mehmet Hassan on my behalf?' The words were singularly distinct, each spoken quietly, but they caused Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed to pause, then turn slowly to face her.
His features were assembled into an inscrutable mask, and his eyes held a wariness that was chilling.
‘Who precisely is Mehmet Hassan?' The voice was dangerously quiet, the silky tones deceptive, for she sensed a finely honed anger beneath their surface.
She felt trapped by the intentness of those incredible eyes, much like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a car, and she took a deep, shuddering breath, then released it slowly. ‘You attended the same school and established a friendship which exists to this day, despite Mehmet Hassan's little-known link with political dissident leaders.'
Dark lashes lowered, successfully hooding his gaze. ‘I know a great many people, Miss Dalton,' he drawled, ‘some of whom I number as friends.'
She had his attention. She dared not lose it.
‘You travel to Riyadh several times a year on business, occasionally extending your stay to venture into the desert with a hunting party to escape from the rigours of the international corporate world. You never go alone, and it has been whispered that Mehmet Hassan has been your guest on a number of occasions.'
He was silent for what seemed to be several minutes but could only have been seconds. ‘Whispers, like grains of sand, are swept far by the desert winds and retain no substance.'
‘You deny your friendship with Mehmet Hassan?'
His expression hardened, his eyes resembling obsidian. ‘What is the purpose of this question?'
Steady, an inner voice cautioned. ‘I want you to take me with you to Riyadh.'
‘Entry into Saudi Arabia requires a sponsor.'
‘Something you could arrange without any effort.'
‘If I was so inclined.'
‘I suggest you
are
inclined,' Kristi said carefully.
Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed's appraisal was all-encompassing as it slowly raked her slim frame. ‘You would dare to threaten me?' he queried with dangerous softness, and she shivered inwardly at the ominous, almost lethal quality apparent in his stance.
‘I imagine the media would be intensely interested to learn of the link between Sheikh Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed and Mehmet Hassan,' she opined quietly. ‘Questions would undoubtedly be raised, public opinion swayed, and at the very least it would cause you embarrassment.'
‘There is a very high price to pay for attempted blackmail, Miss Dalton.'
She pulled the figurative ace and played it. ‘I am applying the rudiments of successful business practice. A favour in exchange for information withheld. My terms, Sheikh bin Al-Sayed, are unrestricted entry into Riyadh under your sponsorship. For my own protection, it is necessary for me to be a guest in your home. By whichever means you choose you will make contact with Mehmet Hassan and request his help in negotiating for my brother's release. In return, I will meet whatever expenses are incurred.' Her eyes never wavered from his. ‘And pledge my silence.'
‘I could disavow any knowledge of this man you call Mehmet Hassan.'
‘I would know you lie.'
If he could have killed her, he would have done so. It was there in his eyes, the flexing of a taut muscle at the edge of his cheek. ‘What you ask is impossible.'
A faint smile lifted the comer of her mouth. ‘Difficult, but not impossible.'
The sound of a discreet knock at the door, and seconds later Rochelle entered the room with a swathe of black draped over her arm.
‘Perhaps we can arrange to further this discussion at a more opportune time?' Kristi offered with contrived politeness. ‘It would be impolite to neglect your guests for much longer.'
Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed inclined his head. ‘Indeed. Shall we say dinner tomorrow evening? I will send a car to your hotel at six.'
A tiny thrill of exhilaration spiralled through her body. ‘Thank you.'
His eyes were hooded and his smile was barely evident. ‘I shall leave you with Rochelle,' he declared formally, then, with a dismissing gesture, he moved into the passageway and closed the door behind him.
‘I think these should be adequate,' Rochelle indicated as she held out the evening trousers and an elegant beaded top.
They were superb, the style emphasising Kristi's slender frame and highlighting the delicate fragility of her features.
‘Do you feel ready to rejoin the party? Sir Alexander Harrington has expressed anxiety as to your welfare.'
‘Thank you.'
It really was a splendid gathering, Kristi acknowledged silently some time later as she sipped an innocuous fruit punch. She had attended many social events in the past ten years in numerous capital cities around the world, with guests almost as impressive as these, in prestigious homes that were equally opulent as this one. Yet none had proved to be quite as nerve-racking.
Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed was not a man to suffer fools gladly. And deep inside she couldn't discount the fact that she was indeed being foolish in attempting to best him. Twice in the past hour she had allowed her gaze to scan the room casually, unconsciously seeking the autocratic features of her host among the many guests.
Even when relaxed he had an inherent ruthlessness that she found vaguely disturbing. Yet familial loyalty overrode the need for rational thought, and she dampened down a feeling of apprehension at the prospect of sharing dinner with him the following evening.
A strange prickling sensation began at the back of her neck, and some inner force made her seek its source, her gaze seeming to home in on the man who silently commanded her attention.
Dark eyes seared her own, and the breath caught in her throat for a few long seconds as she suffered his silent annihilation, then she raised one eyebrow and slanted him a polite smile before deliberately turning towards Sir Alexander.
‘Would you like to leave, my dear?'
Kristi offered him a bemused look, and glimpsed his concern. ‘It
is
getting late,' she agreed, moving to his side as they began circling the room to where their host stood listening to an earnest-looking couple conducting what appeared to be an in-depth conversation.
‘Sir Alexander, Miss Dalton.' The voice was pleasant, the tone polite.
‘It has been a most enjoyable evening,' Sir Alexander said cordially, while Kristi opted to remain silent.
‘It is to be hoped the effects of your accident will be minimal, Miss Dalton,' Shalef drawled, and she responded with marked civility,
‘Thank you, Sheikh bin Al-Sayed, for the borrowed clothes. I shall have them cleaned and returned to you.'
He merely inclined his head in acknowledgement, and Kristi found herself mentally counting each step that led from the lounge.
As they reached the foyer, instruction was given for the Rolls to be brought around. Within minutes they were both seated in the rear and Ralph began easing the vehicle down the long, curving driveway.
‘I trust you were successful, my dear?'
Kristi turned towards Sir Alexander with a faint smile. ‘To a degree, although he was aware of the deliberate orchestration. We're to dine together tomorrow evening.'

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